


Sinking Boat, Point it Home

by orphan_account



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Commission fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, background First Aid/Whirl, minor Simpatico shenanigans, spoilers for lost light, with a hint of Lug/Anode because let's go lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 20:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18676606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The end of theLost Light’sjourney is only the beginning of another.





	Sinking Boat, Point it Home

**Author's Note:**

> For Moku.

“You know, I figured you’d be the first one of us to tie the knot,” Rodimus said, his focus never wavering from the brush in his hand and the canvas that was Drift’s chest. He worried his lower lip between his thoughts, as if taking the soft derma in his teeth would help to aid in his concentration. “Just - I dunno, I guess I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.”

Drift kept his optics closed as he asked, “What gave it away? That I was going to be a married man?”

He asked such a question with genuine curiosity, but he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he reflected on how accurate such an observation turned out to be. He never had been one to underestimate how astute Rodimus could be when it came to others, and rightfully so.

“You’re just so...” Rodimus made a vague gesture with his free hand. His spoiler twitched as well - involuntarily, Drift presumed, given how inclined Rodimus was towards hyperactivity, and the extended period of controlled movements that painting necessitated. His frame must have been an untapped well of energy that was demanding some sort of outlet. “Sappy. That’s the word. You’re sappy.”

That did prompt Drift to crack open a (narrowed) optic. “Oh?” he prompted, and there was a challenging undertone to his vocals that had once meant something, back when he’d had a reputation for impulsive acts of violence. 

“You know what I mean,” Rodimus said - defensively, Drift would argue - in place of an actual response. When Drift’s probing stare didn’t accept such a non-answer, Rodimus relented. “You’re the kind of guy whose wildest, horniest fantasy is - is having a home. A little house, the kind that people would call ‘cute.’”

“I see,” Drift said, and while he would certainly love to remind Rodimus that the latter descriptor of said fantasy was wickedly untrue, doing so would have felt like a breach of the sanctity of what they were preparing for; which was a ceremony in itself, almost. 

“People will look at you and say ‘duh, it’s hippy dippy, happy clappy Drift, of course he’d want something so _quaint,_ ’” and even in the exaggerated tone he was using to convey the shallow conclusion drawn by someone who didn’t look further than healing crystals and incantations, Rodimus’ apparent disdain for such a concept still bled through. “And yeah, maybe that’s part of it, because you’re the sort of guy who would want a garden to grow some weird herbs or something. But it’s not the whole story.”

Rodimus was silent for a moment as he finished one of the intricate designs that he’d been painting with an uncharacteristic amount of care, one that left Drift as touched as Rodimus’ ability to so easily pick him apart and understand him on a fundamental level; for better or worse, though Drift was determined not to dwell on the drawbacks that came with such a level of perception, not when they were engaged in an act as intimate as this. 

Rodimus dipped his brush into the reservoir of paint and consulted the reference text that Drift had provided before moving onto the next line. “You’ve always been a family person, haven’t you?” he murmured, and there was none of the flippancy that he’d previously spoken with, just a sincerity that was a testament to the tenderness with which Rodimus unearthed the idiosyncrasies of Drift’s spark. 

How time had changed him, Drift quietly observed with no shortage of pride. 

“I would have once said that joining the Decepticons was the happiest moment of my life,” Drift said softly, and he allowed his optics to close once more as he tapped into the memory of such a moment, of receiving a brand and name alike that both carried with them a sense of belonging. 

“More of a home than the _Lost Light_ ever was, huh?” Rodimus said, and there was a weariness to his expression that made him look older, as if the burden of carrying that guilt had left him aged and worn. 

Drift didn’t dare to move and compromise Rodimus’ work, much as the part of him that was inclined towards forgiveness yearned to offer some gesture of comfort. “No. But it brought me to one.”

Rodimus’ hand stilled. “I guess it did.”

They lapsed into silence for several minutes, accompanied only by their ventilations and the glide of the paintbrush against Drift’s armor. It was only when Rodimus moved to Drift’s face that his fingers strayed from their steel grip and professionalism into something just shy of a caress, and Rodimus said, “He’s good for you.”

It was an approbation that Drift hadn’t anticipated receiving with such open honesty, and it had him leaning gently into Rodimus’ touch, relishing the feel of the hand that would soon give him away.

______________________________

“So,” First Aid said as he watched Ratchet evaluate his handiwork in the mirror, “do you feel ready?” 

Ratchet didn’t immediately respond, too enraptured by the complex patterns of lines and swirls that adorned his frame. The gold paint had a shimmer to it that would only look even more stunning in the natural light of the ceremony, where the setting sun would serve as a blazing backdrop to his vows. 

First Aid had done a remarkable job in his dutiful replication of the ceremonial paint that was depicted in the Spectralist script Drift had provided. Ratchet couldn’t help but admire the way the accents around his optics helped smooth over some of the telltale signs of his age, bringing a vibrancy to his features that he’d thought had departed long ago.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Ratchet said as he cast an awestruck glance over the patterns on his hands: his livelihood, now graced with symbols and runes that spoke of a value outside of what use they could provide.

“I think I did a pretty amazing job,” First Aid said, voicing the praise that Ratchet always seemed too stubborn to heap upon a pupil more than worthy of it. “Turns out these hands can do more than save lives.”

First Aid’s expression was unreadable, but his tone conveyed a pride in his accomplishments - and a determination to express it, even in the absence of acknowledgment by others - that could surpass Ratchet’s own. It was enough to rouse Ratchet from his silent appraisal and have him meet First Aid’s gaze in the mirror.

“Couldn’t have asked for better,” Ratchet conceded, and the twitch of his lips practically qualified as a grin by his standards. “Not that you need me to tell you that.”

“True,” First Aid said, completely shameless. “I just like hearing you admit it.”

Ratchet had a lecture prepared about the dangers of developing an ego, but the whisper of the door opening and Cyclonus’ subsequent entrance kept the environment civil. 

“He’s all yours,” First Aid said, passing the proverbial torch to Cyclonus as he started to make his leave. But he had to get one last word in first, of course, and turned to regard Ratchet with a chastising finger and a glint to his visor that didn’t leave the stern look it concealed open to interpretation. “You’re getting bonded to the love of your life. Drift deserves better than ‘ready enough,’ you got it?”

Ratchet grunted but knew better than to protest, regardless of the fact that he felt like a scolded child in that moment. “Crystal clear.”

“Good,” First Aid said, and he parted with a look - one that was powerful enough to transcend the concept of obscured facial features - that ensured Ratchet would take that warning to heart.

Cyclonus, who thus far had remained silent, ventured to speak with what was a thinly-veiled hint of amusement after First Aid had cleared the premises. Remarkable, that he was so brazenly showing even a touch of emotion when Ratchet and the others had once been left with nothing more than claw marks and the implications of them.

“First Aid appears to be the only one so bold as to speak to you in such a manner,” Cyclonus said. “Perhaps you should have chosen him to officiate.”

“He’d keep everyone in line, I’ll give him that,” Ratchet grumbled. He took a moment to quietly appreciate the level of care with which Cyclonus seemed to have prepared himself for this moment, leaving no doubt that he was bearing the responsibility requested of him with nothing short of dedication. “But you and I both know we made the right choice here. Spectralist or not, you’re someone we trust to do the job right.”

Cyclonus dipped his head. Even his horns were embellished with the same intricate linework as the rest of his frame, making him look the part of a Spectralist priest far more than anyone else in their rag-tag crew could ever hope to. It certainly helped that Cyclonus of all people knew how to handle spiritual matters with the gravitas that they deserved, and had thus accepted the offer and what it entailed with a solemn gratitude.

“I’m honored to have been given this opportunity,” Cyclonus said, still bowed in a display of humility or respect or what-have-you, but either way it had Ratchet shifting his weight and fumbling for a response that would be adequate. “Bonding ceremonies are a sacred affair. We’re fortunate to witness one, let alone take part.”

“Suppose it is pretty special,” Ratchet grunted, in the biggest concession he’d make when it came to revealing just how much the situation was having an emotional impact on him.

It wasn’t everyday that someone survived a war and found someone worth spending the remainder of their seemingly limitless days with, let alone someone who was now living far past his prime. The thought had Ratchet gesturing for Cyclonus to rise, his tone somewhere between begrudgingly flustered and admonishing as he said, “Alright, alright. Duly noted. You’re here to help me finish up, aren’t you? I’ll never hear the end of it if I’m late to my own bonding.”

Cyclonus did as he was told, and his expression once again adopted that same stern stoicism that had once made him unapproachable to their entire merry band of misfits, save for one. He guided Ratchet in front of the mirror before pulling out a grand necklace emblazoned with garnet and gold. He carefully placed it around Ratchet’s neck as if it were an object worthy of reverence, and made a few adjustments in the reflection that had it catching the light in such a way that did its beauty justice. 

“Spectralists believe that such ceremonial garb will help to usher in a long and prosperous bond,” Cyclonus murmured, and he draped a white cloak over Ratchet’s broad shoulders to complete the look. “Wear it with pride.”

Ratchet wondered what his aura must have looked like in that moment, and if it would match the regality of his appearance; alien as it seemed on someone who had long ago ditched the privilege of vanity in favor of neglecting even basic self-maintenance. 

He promptly dismissed such a thought, partly out of the preposterousness of such a notion, and partly because he knew - and it was nice to dabble in such certainties - what Drift’s answer would be. 

“Thank you,” Ratchet said softly, turning so that he could address his gratitude to Cyclonus proper. 

Cyclonus seemed to consider him for a moment. Then, without any fanfare or prelude, he placed a kiss on Ratchet’s forehead.

It was a blessing in itself, made even more profound by Cyclonus’ parting wisdom.

“Love truly is the greatest gift that life has to offer us. I believe we could both benefit from learning to show it more.”

______________________________

They chose Rodion, naturally, as it had seen those nascent moments of their relationship. 

Functionist Rodion was not the same as the one they had known, but it was just faithful enough to the original to evoke those same memories of second chances at life and the bestowing of confidence in a better future.

The meticulous grooming of the ceremonial space into something befitting what it was to bear had been a group effort, a culmination of everything their crew had endured and grown from in the process. Said crew was now arranged around the altar save for Cyclonus, who stood at the apex of it all, hands gripping his Great Sword and optics closed in what looked like an act of meditation.

Perhaps he was mentally rehearsing his role in what was about to occur, came some whispers from among the crowd. But Tailgate would proudly insist that Cyclonus had no need for last minute preparations, and was simply enjoying a moment of solitude to find his center and soak in the atmosphere of the occasion.

There was an intimacy to the space. Though the clifftop location offered a breathtaking view of Rodion’s sprawling landscape, the rivulets running at their feet kept the land quartered and its inhabitants close together. The encroaching sun, in the midst of its languid descent towards the horizon, was like an embrace.

Each small stream fed into a larger pool that circled the altar, one which carried in it a piety that could rival those who touted such a name, and it in turn had two larger branches that would serve as the betrothed’s paths.

One on end, the shimmering liquid lapped at Drift and Rodimus’ feet. The former, dressed in a garb that mirrored Ratchet’s opposite him, looked almost ethereal as the cloak fluttered around him. 

“Nervous?” Rodimus asked, and contrary to his usual nature there was no teasing lilt to the question, just a sincerity born from mistakes made and lessons learned.

“A little,” Drift said quietly, as if he feared that Ratchet would somehow be privy to such an admittance. He squeezed Rodimus’ hand, not so much for comfort as a gesture of good faith between them, and the vulnerabilities they exchanged as easily as jokes or the smallest acts of affection. “You only get one chance at this sort of thing. Can’t say I don’t feel a little pressure not to screw it up.”

“I doubt you will,” Rodimus said. “Besides, you know how Ratchet is. I doubt he cares all that much about some ceremony. It’s what comes after that actually matters.”

There was a levity to the remark that had Drift teetering on the edge of annoyance, but as he was so inclined to do he showed Rodimus the kindness of reading it with a charitable intent. 

“I think he cares more than he lets on,” Drift said, his expression softening as he observed Ratchet - alone, tragically, for the only one he would truly want to be by his hand had been lost along the way - who looked to be as unshakable a force of nature as word of mouth built him up to be. 

But Drift knew how to read Ratchet better than most, could see in the way that Ratchet’s hands were clasped in front of him with his thumbs twiddling as opposed to being hooked casually in the plating of his hips.

“He cares because it matters to me,” Drift said with a sense of finality. He needed no further qualification on the matter than the promises already made in the name of meeting halfway. 

Rodimus was silent for a moment, any clever quips kept at bay by the sound of an old Cybertronian hymn. The glyphs had a harshness to them that would have made them dissonant with the joy of the occasion, but Cyclonus sang with a smooth baritone that had the language from a bygone time resonating richly throughout the space.

“I guess this is it, then,” Rodimus said.

“Thank you for being here with me,” Drift said before slowly removing his fingers from Rodimus’ own. 

Traditionally, the one seeing off the bonded-to-be would offer a prayer of safe passage along their journey. But Rodimus, always one to buck tradition spectacularly, offered his support with a parting hug.

The words he whispered in Drift’s audial were not tinged with any sort of sanction from a higher power, just the sentimentality that he so often kept buried beneath the weight of others’ expectations. 

“You deserve this.”

It was short and sweet and exactly what Drift needed to hear as they pulled apart and exchanged one last glance that felt like a true bookend to their quest.

As Drift began to make his way towards the altar, Ratchet did the same, and it was only then that it truly dawned on Drift that this would be the last time he would be tasked with traversing through life alone. 

Their union in the center felt more like coming home to something familiar rather than the start of something entirely new. 

Spectralist bondings were steeped in old customs that made such an occasion like a carefully coordinated dance. But it was after their hands were joined by an ornate band of silk and their heads anointed with the ceremonial oil that Ratchet spoke a vow uniquely his own; not in the tongue of the ancients or with the rigid vernacular of the devout.

“I love you,” Ratchet murmured. 

_I know,_ Drift was tempted to cheekily reply when the memory of confessions made in the midst of heated battles and the passing of moral judgments was still fresh in their minds. 

“I love you too,” he replied instead, because the ability to truly put it into words after what they had endured was not a gift he was willing to take for granted.

______________________________

Whereas the ceremony had been a rather solemn affair that paid respects to the beliefs that had helped to shape Drift’s current way of life - and, in turn, had led him to where we was now - the party afterwards was anything but. 

“I never took First Aid for much of a partier,” Drift remarked as he watched the medic in question pound back another shot - his seventh? eighth? time and alcohol consumption both had ceased to have meaning shortly after the kickoff of the celebration - and triumphantly hold up the glass without so much as a hiccup. 

Ratchet chuckled. “You haven’t spent enough time around him, then. You wouldn’t think it looking at him but First Aid’s a menace.”

Their table provided them with a perfect view of the festivities, including the bar. First Aid had taken up residence there promptly and was accompanied by Whirl, who seemed to be doing nothing to discourage First Aid’s engex indulgence. 

Whirl held his own drink carefully with one claw while the other signaled for Swerve to bring the pair another round. His optic was shaped into a crescent moon of glee, and it was possibly the first time Drift had had the privilege of seeing Whirl so unabashedly joyful.

“It’s always the ones you least expect, I suppose,” Drift mused, but the memory of an ill-fated kegstand had him amending that statement with a grimace. “Except for Riptide.”

“Hah. I’d expect nothing less from someone so infatuated with the Wreckers,” Ratchet said, and he observed Whirl with all the wariness of a parent watching their child swoon before a bad influence. 

“I did run with the Wreckers for a bit, you know,” Drift said, and his tone turned sultry as he added, “I learned quite a bit. Not just about them, but from them.”

Ratchet’s chest felt tight and his plating warm beneath the surface, but he cleared his intake and refused to openly admit such a fact. “All terrible things, I’m sure.”

Drift, unswayed by his coy act, offered him a coquettish smile. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

“Gross,” Anode said with all the theatrical disgust of a child first learning about matters of intimacy. “Save some for your wedding night.”

Lug, who had her arm looped in Anode’s and was being ushered in the direction of the dessert table, shot the pair an apologetic look that she had surely perfected over the years.

Drift, far from fazed by the attempt at provocation, watched as Anode attempted to get Lug to take a rust stick from her mouth using her own. “Charming, isn’t she,” he drawled, to which Ratchet simply grunted in agreement - too enthralled with what Drift had propositioned and Anode had shamelessly exploited for her own perverse amusement. 

When Ratchet did speak his words were slightly muffled by the rim of his glass. “We’ve kept some interesting company over the years.”

He gestured in the direction of the dance floor, where Nautica and Brainstorm were engaged in some wild rondo of sorts. It was frantic and inelegant and potentially hazardous to any bystanders that found themselves unlucky enough to get caught in the line of fire, but their uproarious laughter and complete lack of inhibitions had managed to enrapture the crowd. It wasn’t long before Tailgate boldly stood and invited Cyclonus out to the floor - an invitation that Cyclonus did not let pass him by this time around, which was met with a chorus of hollers and cheers - and Roller extended a similar offer to Nickel. 

“Careful, Perceptor,” Velocity teased from a nearby table. “Nautica’s stolen a few hearts in her day. You might have some competition.”

Perceptor looked at her with a cool and calculating stare. “Bold of you to presume that I would feel threatened by this.”

“Think they’ll be next?” Drift whispered in Ratchet’s audial. He nodded in the direction of Perceptor who, unbothered by Velocity’s ribbing, was watching Brainstorm’s antics with a smile that only his partner in simpatico could seem to evoke. 

“They better be,” Ratchet said. “I’ve got credits riding on this.”

Drift raised a brow. “You bet against Tailgate and Cyclonus? Really?”

Ratchet rubbed his chin, lending credence to the fact that the love lives of their crewmembers were worthy of the same amount of consideration as any medical diagnosis. “Brainstorm is a man of action. Tailgate and Cyclonus are both more likely to get caught up in their feelings instead of taking the initiative. That’s Whirl’s job.”

Whirl, who was currently having an increasingly animated conversation with First Aid and looked precariously close to spilling his drink all over a nearby Thunderclash or anyone else unlucky enough to be in the blast radius. That Whirl.

“I don’t think you have any room to judge,” Drift said with a impish smile. 

Ratchet, unequipped with any sort of retort, silenced Drift by shoving a spoonful of cake into his mouth. Retribution was swift and merciless when he had some smeared across his cheek in return.

______________________________

“It looks good on you.” 

Ratchet continued to trace along the lines that First Aid had painted, his expression somber despite Drift’s reassurances. “Never really thought this sort of thing suited me. You wear it a lot better.”

Drift looped his arms around Ratchet’s neck and rested his chin in the crook of his shoulder. He twined his fingers with Ratchet’s to stop their wandering and said, “I mean it. You’re beautiful, you know. And I’m grateful that you did this for me.”

Ratchet didn’t protest further. He allowed himself to sink into the familiar warmth of Drift’s weight, shuttering his optics as Drift’s lips began their own exploration of his frame, one that was carried out with far more kindness than his own. 

“Meeting halfway, remember?” Ratchet said. He felt himself growing restless in his seat as Drift’s kisses along his jawline, his neck, had heat and charge propagating along his circuits to his core. 

“Mhm.” Drift hummed his agreement as his hands shamelessly traveled lower, lingering first above Ratchet’s spark chamber before mapping out slats and seams and the delicate wiring that could be plucked and teased in those tiny gaps between armor. “It means a lot to me.” He smiled when he felt Ratchet shiver beneath his breath. “Thank you.”

“Drift...”

“Hm?” Drift stopped his ministrations to look up and was greeted by a pair of smoldering optics and parted lips that carried with them a request. Drift patiently waited for Ratchet to verbalize what they both wanted, and what had been a long time coming.

“Let me take you to bed,” Ratchet said, his voice as soft as the billow of their suite’s curtains. 

“Kept me waiting long enough,” Drift said. He looked triumphant as he prepared to lead Ratchet over to the bed that was far too decadent for the simple act of recharge, but his bravado was turned on its head when Ratchet, in a fluid motion, managed to hoist Drift up bridal-style.

“Suppose I ought to make it up to you, then,” Ratchet said, and there was lust in his expression, sure - Drift would have been disappointed if there wasn’t - but also a devotion that for the first time in Drift’s functioning had him not doubting his worth. 

As Drift was laid out on the bed, left bare and at the mercy of Ratchet to express his love in the ways that he argued words always failed him, he vowed to return the favor. 

Ratchet’s fingers gently brushed against Drift’s panel, because for all his talk and the obvious need that was radiating from his frame like a furnace he would never hold his conjunx to unspoken expectations. 

“Can I?” Ratchet asked, his voice gruff and lacking the same eloquence as the smooth glide of his hands. 

Drift spread his legs, allowing Ratchet to better blanket his frame, and guided Ratchet’s hand to his exposed valve. “Please.”

It would have been easy to lose himself in what Drift was so keen to offer, to lay claim to his lips as he sunk in and finally brought them to what had, at one point, started to just feel like the natural - almost inevitable - outcome of the eons-long saga that was their relationship. 

But he chose the path of indulgence instead, knowing that Drift would surely chide him for thinking that he didn’t deserve to savor this moment. His touch was light at first, not unlike what he would use when performing a precision operation or tending to a patient that was in the throes of illness or injury and needed that small reassurance. His sensitive fingertips took their time, committing each one of Drift’s reactions, no matter how subtle, to memory: the way he’d bite his lip when the sensors near his entrance were teased just so, the hitch and release of his breath when Ratchet’s thumb finally circled his node, the way his optics would dim to an amorous glow before an influx of charge would have them brightening with arousal.

“You really want to make me beg for it?” Drift asked, and though there was an undeniable frustration to his question, he still bore a smile that had never taken on the same sincerity in sex as it did now.

“No,” Ratchet said, letting one, then two fingers finally slip into Drift’s valve, “but if you want to I’m not stopping you.”

Drift groaned as he thumped his head back against the pillow. “In all my fantasizing about this moment I somehow didn’t think you’d be so...”

“So...?” Ratchet pressed, his lips shaping into a smirk that Drift could have smacked him or kissed him for, depending on whether Ratchet delivered on the promise that was evident in it.

“Like this,” Drift huffed in lieu of elaborating on everything that Ratchet was making him feel in that moment. 

Ratchet curled his fingers, stroking along a cluster of nodes that had Drift’s hand clenching the sheets. “Could have picked a real casanova and you settled for me instead. Sorry, kid.” And the way he shrugged wasn’t entirely unapologetic.

“Don’t.”

Ratchet froze, his one hand stilling as the other was suddenly in a grip like iron. “Drift?”

“Don’t even joke about me wanting someone else, ok?” Drift said. His expression lacked the playfulness that Ratchet had grown accustomed to in such a short time. “Please. It’s you and me and I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”

“I’m sorry,” Ratchet murmured. He drew back, prompting the beginnings of a protest from Drift, but it died down when Ratchet palmed at his own panel. “It’s just us. And you know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Drift got to his knees and replaced Ratchet’s hand with his own. It took next to no coaxing before he had Ratchet’s pressurizing spike in his grasp. 

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Drift admitted. As he continued to stroke Ratchet to fullness he gently pushed Ratchet back so that he was straddling his lap. “And you, going out on your own to find me and bring me back? That’s how I knew I’d made the right choice.”

“Kept you waiting a while, though,” Ratchet muttered, and when he tried to turn his head to obscure his face in the pillow, Drift was quick to cup his cheek and bring him back.

“But you came,” Drift said. And then his optics once again glimmered with something mischievous, because wedding nights should truly be reserved for more than just the confession of regrets and oaths to do better. “And you can make it up to me by not keeping me waiting now.”

Ratchet managed to laugh despite everything. He always would underestimate Drift’s ability to make expressions of mirth tumble so freely from lips that spent far too long caging in sorrow. “You sure know how to make a rusty old thing like me feel wanted.”

“It’s the truth,” Drift said, and as Drift brought them together Ratchet had no doubt that it was.


End file.
